


Megalopolis

by Peapods



Series: To A New and Shiny Place [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:27:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5011678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peapods/pseuds/Peapods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miami's heat (<i>diabolical</i>), clothes (<i>heinous</i>), and cars (<i>overcompensating</i>) are three things less offensive to Q than James Bond's absolute presumption.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Megalopolis

The mission hasn’t precisely gone south, but it has certainly gone pear-shaped. James wonders if the heat is getting to him, thick and humid as it is in this city of druglords and barely-there bikinis. Some very British part of him, that sounds remarkably like his M, is offended by the sunshine and party atmosphere. The Double-oh part of him is enjoying the costume, the drinks, and the invitation to ogle--both male and female.

Now, though, he’s faced with a technological problem he can’t express in words and can’t solve on his own. He toys with an idea for a while and finally smiles.

He wants to see how the waves in Q’s hair curl in the humidity.

*****

Miami is awful and no one can convince Q otherwise. It’s far too bloody hot, too bloody sunny, and too bloody crowded--the last is quite the complaint given that he lives and works in London. The bustle here has a rhythm that Q can’t get used to. Money here doesn’t mean dark tailored suits and Jags--it’s brightly colored shirts, short skirts, and Lambos.

Bond, for all his blond hair and tan, seems no more suited than Q to the landscape. He is wearing a polo shirt and khaki trousers, blending in so well that Q could almost mistake him for a local. Except that he is scowling like the sun is offending his Britishness. Or perhaps Q is simply projecting. Q feels abysmally pale.

He pulls at his own shirt, a short sleeved button up, and feels a slick of sweat from his nape to the small of his back. In an effort to look like he’s there for holiday making instead of espionage, he has consented to wear the sort of short trousers that he sees twats in Dalston wear and a pair of slip on TOMS he can feel Bond judging. He feels an utter twat, but as he watches another man with a leather satchel and a pair of thick glasses passes by talking about fair trade coffee, he knows he has made the most plausible choice.

“Careful Q, someone might think you have a modicum of fashion sense,” Bond says, amused, as he sits at the long table where Q is set up. It’s the back of a bar, America’s idea of a beer garden, and there are plenty of people at half-four on a Friday enjoying goblets full of 10% beer. Q himself has been pulling at some near-local lager that isn’t too bad. Bond has also chosen a beer instead of one of his usual cocktails and when he sips from it a bit of foam catches in the light stubble above his lip. Q does his best not to stare.

“I’m glad you approve of the absolute rubbish I have been forced to wear in order to appear here on what some might call a thoroughly frivolous use of my time,” Q says, booting up the programs he’ll need and signing into their protected network. His remote hotspot would be the envy of every iPhone user within 30 meters if they could figure out how to access it.

“M has been thoroughly assured of your absolute necessity on this one,” Bond says with a small smirk.

M certainly had been convinced. He had told Q, in no uncertain terms, that he was going to Miami to support Bond and that nothing short of nuclear codes being leaked to ISIS would get him a pass. So he had trepidatiously boarded the plane, taken enough Xanax to fell an ox, and flown 3000 miles to make a glorified house call. All on Bond’s say so.

“I could have run this from my flat while catching up on ‘The Fall.’ But no, you apparently have lost all skill you’ve ever demonstrated with a computer--”

“My Googling skills are incomparable,” Bond interjects.

“--and now require someone to complete your task so vastly overqualified as to compare to the TARDIS calculating a bar tab. Now, Bond, let’s kindly have the figures so I can do the maths for you.”

He hasn’t let up on his typing. He finds that he has to keep part of him busy when trying to engage with Bond. Otherwise, he might get distracted by the glint of teeth in the smile he can see over the top of his glasses.

Once Bond starts speaking, the actual mission is not quite as simple as Q had made it out, but he can’t help taking the piss. They speak low and quickly, getting in another round, as they go over the problem. It _is_ easier with Q here, able to pick Bond’s brain, get his feedback and facial expressions in real time. They could have done it remotely, but there is something to doing this in person that makes the connections easier. Q is done with the hack, slash, and code much sooner than he would have been at headquarters or even his flat.

That’s the last either of them can do for a few days and immediately Q is aware that they have not shared a space alone since Chicago. He does not think of Bond’s tongue tracing his spine or the gun calluses that stripped his cock. He does not think of fog and rain and adrenaline. He packs his laptop and notices that a new glass has been put in front of him. He meets Bond’s eyes now.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be? An exclusive rooftop bar or oak lined back room?” Q asks.

“Called M while I was getting another round. You’re to stick around for the duration,” Bond says with another lazy smile.

“I am now glorified tech support, I suppose,” he takes a drink. He girds himself. They’re not completely sober and there is none of the atmosphere of Chicago, neither Q’s desperate bid to prove himself nor Bond’s curious concern. The sun is on the horizon and lights are coming on and people are coming out. 

“Finish up,” Bond says. 

Q does.

*****

They don’t skip immediately to the shag. Apparently, Bond thinks he needs to be in the right mood. It’s the only way he can explain the next few hours. It’s the only way he can explain the car. Bond tells him to forget the sensible Honda and leaves him outside the beer garden. A few minutes later, he pulls up in a C1 Corvette, which, in retrospect, is entirely perfect for Bond. It’s got a little bit of the Aston in style, rounded instead of the rough angles of the later generations, and is painted Pennant Blue with beige interior. Q suspects Bond knows he’s a bit of a gear head. He also suspects Bond knows what a well tuned engine does to him. 

Bond revs the engine.

Someone whistles behind Q and he closes his eyes in some mortification. Bond, with a raised eyebrow at the bold whistler, bounds from the car and pops the boot. Q stows his bag and gets in with as much dignity as he can muster. Bond slides in with his usual effortless, economical grace and speeds away with a squeal of tires that causes everyone around to scowl.

They do go somewhere more suited to Bond’s aesthetic, but there’s obviously been some thought put into Q’s comfort. The bar has an outdoor area that extends onto the docks. Small boats, off shoots from the yachts and water-side homes, are docked a short distance away and Q feels woefully underdressed. Bond, though, just puts a hand on his back and presses him along until they are on the corner of a dock under a canopy. He pulls at a sash and a curtain drops so that they are hidden.

“Thank you,” he says, awkwardly and sincerely.

“Not really my type of people either, but the drink and atmosphere are unmissable,” Bond says, voice gone low and intimate. It’s not yet seductive. Rather, Q feels like Bond is actually being considerate. A discrete waiter appears and Bond orders for both of them. Q bristles a little at the presumption, but Bond has been paying attention and orders a him neat bourbon, even if the quality is far higher than Q normally allows himself.

They have never done this. Obviously, they have never done this, but it occurs to Q that Bond is trying to be _normal_ which strikes him so discordant that he surreptitiously looks over his shoulder into the water to see if Bond is actually still on mission. Bond, however, is chuckling.

Q knows he’s guessed it, “You can hardly blame me. This isn’t your modus operandi.”

“You profess familiarity with my particular brand of romance?” Bond asks.

Christ, every conversation is filled with innuendo and landmines. Q wishes he had his drink right now. “I’ve been fully briefed on every particular of every Double O’s life,” Q says, trying for saucy, but Bond is now looking at him seriously. “I have to know everything about you so I know every way of helping you.”

“So the crack about my computer skills--”

“I am fully aware of your technological competence, yes,” Q says, allowing a smile. 

“Among other things,” Bond murmurs.

“Does it bother you?”

Bond’s eyes are locked on his and Q swallows before looking away. “On the contrary,” Bond says. “I feel safer in your hands.”

*****

The touching starts after the second drink, after they’re leaving to go to a jazz club. Bond’s hand again guides him by the small of the back, but almost stroking, thumb following the knob of his spine and fingers clenching lightly. Q will admit that he is a bit tipsy, not used to the high quality drink or pour, and that hand is causing him quite a bit difficulty in the walking department.

They make it to the car and Q draws the line at being handed into a vehicle. As they breeze and speed toward their next destination, Bond’s hand intermittently caresses his knee. This is his seduction, Q thinks: easy familiarity and banter punctuated with moments of sincerity. Whether the latter are engineered or completely on the level, Q does not know. He’s been privy to more than one of Bond’s seductions while being stuck on the wire, but those all feel now like cheap cover versions of the real thing.

Ball and Chain, Bond tells him, plays wonderful jazz and makes a mojito that has been known to cause extreme nudity in lightweights. Q tells him that mint in a drink is a travesty and he won’t be having it. Bond laughs and gets him something with tobacco leaves in it, which is hardly better but spares him the indignity of smelling like toothpaste for the rest of the night.

Here, there is little quiet time for conversation and so begins the more physical aspect of the seduction. Q’s allowing it. He tells himself that he’s “allowing” it anyway. Bond sits close, one arm across the back of the booth. Q leaves his hand on Bond’s thigh. There is very little doubt as to where this night will end and Q tells his professionalism to bugger off because he wants to relive Chicago.

“Too bad it’s not Saturday, we could have salsaed,” Bond says in his ear, warm air brushing at the wisps of hair that curl about the round of it.

He levels Bond with a look that hopefully conveys his utter disinterest is making a twat of himself on a dance floor and is rewarded with a hearty laugh.

The music is very good and everything here is very loud and so very not British, but that’s beginning to bother him less and less. 

That, he admits, might have to do with the fingers lightly stroking his arm.

*****

By the time they leave that bar, Q is restless, arousal choking his breath and coloring his cheeks. He’s not hard yet, but it wouldn’t take much--a hand in his, a whiskery kiss, hands on the knobs of his hips. When they reach the hotel, Bond motions toward the hotel bar, but Q shakes his head and takes his hand.

“I think we’ve had enough of that, don’t you?”

Bond goes willingly. In the elevator, he backs Q into a wall but does little but stand close, his nose running along Q’s forehead and neck. Q’s breath is coming quicker and good God, he wants to touch this man. He’s gone from zero to desperate in moments and the elevator is unbearably slow. He slides his own hands, steady from drink otherwise he’d be shaking, up Bond’s impossible arms.

“You gorgeous boy,” Bond whispers.

“Not a boy,” Q whispers back, pulling at Bond’s short hairs until the agent looks him in the eye.

“No, no boy at all,” Bond agrees as he presses even closer. 

Of course, the agent has a suite--never able to stay within the budget he’s been allocated, always upgrading using his own money--but its size and relative opulence are all Q takes in before he’s being tumbled into the bedroom, into the bed. Bond doesn’t bother with their clothes at first and there’s something wonderful about that. Bond’s kisses are as commanding and hot as ever, but this time there is a rough brush from his stubble, the smell of sweat from the heat, and the warring tastes of basil, jalapeno, and lime. Bond had gotten creative at the last bar.

A fingernail flicks at his nipple, “Bond,” he gasps.

“James,” Bond--James--corrects.

*****

Q’s chest is thin as just as porcelain pale as it had been the last time James saw it. He flicks open buttons one by one, licking at the dried sweat that has gathered in every small dip and caught on every downy hair. Q tastes delicious, less like the desperation James had sensed in Chicago and more like heady, uncontrollable arousal. He finds that he prefers it. Q’s fine nails dig into his shoulders as he descends, before sliding into James’s hair, brushing the soft bristles like one might a cashmere sweater. Up and down, light then hard, before cupping, digging in.

Most of James’s experience with men has been mission related, but that means very little. All Double-ohs are expected to be flexible. It did them no good if a Double-oh couldn’t perform because of something like genitalia. Q isn’t the first to draw his eye, nor the first he’s acted upon, but he’s been the only one who has been able to hold his interest beyond the first encounter. There’s something very innocent and yet so very knowing about this man. He knows every one of James’s sins even if he doesn’t know his every thought. If he knew his thoughts, maybe the innocence would rub off.

He strips Q naked, noting that the drink has made him more pliant, but also more demanding. He pulls at James’s clothing, easily navigating the belt and buttons until James is down to his pants. He presses Q into the bed then, kissing him deep, licking at the sugars that have coated his teeth. Q makes small noises in his throat, clicky with an edge of a whine or a plea. James obliges him, presses their groins together and reveling in the tight zing that movement sends through him. Q seems to enjoy it as well, clever fingers grasping James by the arse and pushing up.

James has been intentionally riling him up all night, slowly ratcheting up their repartee, their proximity, trying to be less threatening. It has worked brilliantly, but only on Q’s terms. There has been an atmosphere of consent all night. This, the bed, the sex, is only a foregone conclusion because Q has decided it would be. There is something to it that James finds incredibly sexy.

Q’s hips are moving more rhythmically, more insistently and James knows he could end the night with this, but he wants more sweat, more skin. He draws back and shucks off his pants before alighting on his side, pulling Q around and settling one scrawny leg on the thick muscle of his thigh. Q is immediately kissing him again. 

James slows him down, drawing the kisses into pecks, light licks, a nose nuzzle, but his hands are busy with the conveniently provided lubricant and the accessibility of Q’s arse. He is no great judge of these things, but he thinks from the tightness and the need to stretch, Q has not been as busy as he has. He languidly pumps one finger, the motion and repetition enough to relax Q enough to go straight to three. There is swearing and immediate stillness, but this is Q and James knows what he can take.

He’s proven right of course. Q sighs and gives him a disapproving look, but he is more relaxed, looser. James works him only a little longer. He slips on a condom and turns Q on his other side, fitting up behind. He presses inside in one inexorable slide even as Q’s hand spasms and grasps his where it is curved around his hip.

“God, why are you so bloody enormous,” Q complains.

“That wasn’t your complaint last time,” James notes.

“I will not belabor the point by enumerating all the ways last time in no way resembles this time.”

“I must be doing something wrong, you’re usually preverbal by this point,” James observes before pulling and pressing home just a little too fast. It gets him the gasp he wants, but it also illustrates how very close he is to the edge himself.

He pulls Q close, moving his hips in small circles, getting used to the snug space, getting Q used to him. He doesn’t want to rush, but they’ve been barreling down on this moment all bloody afternoon. 

Q is making fitful noises and his arm flings up and around to latch onto the back of James’ head. He takes the hint and mouths at the nape of Q’s neck, biting into the delightful bump at the top of his spine. This, it turns out, is a big hit with Q who lets out a sound between his teeth that’s halfway between a growl and a moan.

“Come on, over,” James says, surprised at the hoarseness of his voice as he positions Q upright and on his knees before guiding himself back inside and resting back on his haunches.

James loves this position and Q doesn’t seem to hate it. He has more control this way and James is curious to see what he does with it. While not as shapely as a field agent--he could be broken in half with a well placed kick--Q’s thigh control is a work of flawless engineering. He only holds onto James’ arms, but not bracing, as he works himself into a furious pace. He’s moaning near constantly and James has to reach down below to pull at his own balls. He pulls at Q’s cock and is nearly rewarded with a head butt, as the other man throws his head back, mouth open. 

James wonders if Q wants to be able to look him in the eye while they do this. He’s been with people who have insisted on being able to look him in the eye. Possibly so they can divine his secrets. Possibly so they can see the color of the sky reflected in an iceberg (a description derived from a particularly poetic conquest.) Q, he thinks, wouldn’t need to look in his eyes to know everything he needs to know.

Q is losing his rhythm and James picks it up, not letting the pace falter even as he feels Q begin to shake.

“Mmmm,” Q moans, voice going high pitched before abruptly cutting out. He’s coming and James does not stop, but he does slow, trying to draw out Q’s orgasm even with his own so close he’s got his teeth grinding into paste. 

“Come on, then,” Q says when he’s recovered.

“Shit,” James allow as he lets himself speed up again, but it’s not the speed that gets him, it’s the arm that Q twines over his shoulder to pull him in for a kiss. His teeth bite at James’ bottom lip and he comes.

*****

The next morning there is milky Cuban coffee for James and black tea for Q. There are, also, “breakfast burritos” that are positively collapsing under the weight of slices of avocado and pico de gallo and fried plantains with powdered sugar. They eat and speak generally about the mission and ones that have preceded it with commonalities. At one point, Q gets a call and has to disappear into the office area to curtail the activities of an enterprising hacker. Then they go out for lunch and to the beach.

It is there, with his hair tossing in the wind, that Q fixes James with a dangerous look. “I’ve been fighting with myself over whether indulging this sort of behavior now will bite me in the arse in the future and have subsequently concluded that I need to nip this new impulse of yours in the bud.

“I am not an intern or mere field agent to be taken out of the box and played with at your whimsy. I will not be treated as either a Girl Friday or ‘sure thing.’ Do not underestimate your influence with M nor overestimate your influence with me. I cannot be haring off on these sorts of jaunts simply because your current flavor of the week is being reluctant and I will not always be as pliable as this when M is convinced by your rather paltry reasoning. Have I made myself clear?”

It’s nothing like James has been expecting or dreading, the breaking off or the demand for more. Q, apparently, only objected to the manner in which he had been summoned.

The trip thereafter is grossly domestic except for the occasional call to defeat international terrorism. It’s calm and warm and James loves it in a way he has never loved a sailboat in the Mediterranean. James reminds himself that Q knows everything about him, kill by kill, and has decided that those things are inconsequential.

James is incredibly interested in finding out everything about Q in return.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to imperfectkreis for the beta. I hate the present tense and editing drunk. Doing both is inadvisable.


End file.
